Clint's Not So Good But Improving Week
by Dalekwizard
Summary: Clint has had bad days, but this week takes the cake. Sequel of sorts to Tony Can't Keep His Mouth Shut. T for minimal language.


Clint Barton had a history of bad days. He was an Agent of SHIELD. Of course he had bad days. Still, this whole week had basically taken the cake. And to top it off, his partner had told him that his handler and friend was dead. What a way to wake up. It was par for the course, for her, to be sure, but right now he just wanted to go to bed and not deal with some obnoxious billionaire and his death visions.

He leaned quietly on Nat as they walked out the wall of the shawarma place – the door was blocked by debris – and they picked their way carefully through the rubble of New York toward Stark Tower. _What a mess._ The thought reverberated across his brain, hollow, as if there was nothing left to bounce against but the sides of his skull. This place would take ages to put right, and the final product wouldn't be the same. He tamped down promptly on any metaphorical thoughts before they had the chance to form. Clint tended to wax lyrical when he was empty, and if he wasn't empty now the term had never been made.

He noticed Nat was limping, and took a little of his weight off of her, only to put it back when she glared at him out of the side of her eyes. No one else would have even noticed her expression changing. Figured; _she always was the strong one._

Having reached Stark Tower with no incident (because they stuck to side streets and shadows to avoid the destruction of the main roads and the adulation or dismay of the average New Yorker), they discovered that the elevator was broken, _which really_, Clint thought, _put the capper on this shit of a day._ Still, there were couches in the bottom floor lounge, and he crashed on one immediately, knowing Nat was at his back, on watch. They wouldn't have it any other way.

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When his eyes fluttered open, Clint saw Nat sitting quietly on the floor, cleaning her gun with the methodical concentration that meant she was grieving. He didn't blame her – now that he was awake, the shame and sorrow and grief came deluging down. His actions had killed so many. It wasn't the killing that got to him, though even after this long it was difficult to deal with, it was the fact that they had been his allies and acquaintances, and one had been his friend.

The jokes and the roosting on the filing cabinets and the tirades about late reports and the occasional cups of coffee and the secret marathons of Supernanny weren't going to happen anymore. Clint would get a new handler, assuming he wasn't considered compromised and quietly gotten rid of. The new handler probably wouldn't go to bat for him over his more outlandish decisions, like pulling in Nat, or not killing the weird-ass werewolf he had hunted down last spring.

No tears, of course, came to his eyes, but for once he wished they would. Nat understood – her cleaning was her own manifestation of grief, in substitute for eyes which no linger shed tears. They sat there for a long time in shared emotion before Nat spoke. "The others are upstairs. We've been given the next three weeks off." That was it. It told him several things: the reports would not be necessary, as Fury would never wait that long and thus knew what had happened already, he was not going to be vanished like some in SHIELD had been in the past, and the two of them had been ordered to stay with the other whackjobs currently upstairs. He didn't know if he could do it, right now, didn't know if he could deal with their problems, and his problems definitely needed privacy.

Which they apparently weren't going to get. A man strode through the door of Stark Enterprises in an absentminded way. He obviously knew where he was going. He navigated the room with ease and stopped in front of the two agents, who had dropped any indication of exhaustion and stood, looking at him sharply.

The fact that the stranger looked like trouble wasn't lost on Clint. They had just finished dealing with a trickster – they didn't need another one. The redhead looked like he was just waiting to cause as much mischief as he could. Nat held her gun carefully; not aimed at him, as he could be a civilian, but at the ready, if he wasn't. Sparking hazel eyes looked out at them cheerfully, and he said, "I have a message for you, mate." He was looking at Clint.

Clint, on the other hand, was trying to figure out what an unarmed British guy had to say to him. Probably something else that would make the shit hit the fan. "From who?"

Brit frowned cheekily. "It's 'whom', my little archer, and from a guy I met recently, named Phil." Clint narrowed his eyes for a moment, and the ginger looked sad for a moment. "Wow, mate, he must've meant a lot."

"So you know he's dead? What was he to you?" Clint wondered if he was looking at one of Coulson's friends, or maybe a nephew – the man was that age.

"'Course I know he's dead, how d'you think I met 'im? He says to tell you that it was a pleasure to work with you, and that a fellow named Carson is gonna be your new handler, and that you shouldn't cause him too much trouble, but that he's a good man and Phil's recommendation. Oh, and he says you made the right call on the wolf boy last spring. I agree, by the way, even if I have to agree with an authority figure." The ginger scowled a bit. "The bloody wanker is gonna be a trouble stopper, I can feel it. Even when I'm dead I can't do whatever I want. Bloody babysitters." And with that, the man was gone. No light, no noise, no nothing. Just gone.

Nat stared at Clint and he sat down. This was getting to be a bit much. Monsters and magic indeed.

"What was the wolf boy thing?" Clint frowned. The redhead messenger had sounded grateful that he had left the kid alone.

"Last spring, there were some odd sightings in a little town. I was there on vacation and I took a look. I found a kid werewolf. I have no idea how it happened, but I had the option to kill him and I didn't, because he had never hurt anyone. And he wasn't looking to. I couldn't catch him that night, though, and the next he was gone. Fury hasn't found him, no sign, and was pissed that I didn't kill him, at least. Take out a potential hazard. Phil backed me on it." Nat nodded, thoughtful. She was taking things like this in her stride now, he noticed, and wondered if it was a good thing or an indication of shock. Neither of them mentioned the fact that the ginger hadn't mentioned who he worked for. They both knew.

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Clint met his new handler three days into his vacation. Carson was a nondescript man in a blue suit and black hair. The tennis shoes and the firm but not competitive grip of his handshake reassured Clint that Phil wouldn't have recommended a fool for a superior.

When Carson bawled out Fury for disturbing his agent's rest a five days into his vacation (it didn't work, but he yelled. at. the Director.) to ask questions about the man who came and delivered the message, Clint figured they'd get along just fine.

And when the two of them heard _why_ Fury was looking for the guy (he had apparently made the Director's eyepatch a funky purple color and then added x-ray vision to it so it would be difficult to justify disposing) the snorts that erupted from their mouths were identical.

"Phil's got his work cut out for him." Clint couldn't agree more.


End file.
